


You Got the Keys to Me

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Airbnb au, Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, The West Wing References, this is a fic not a product endorsement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 21:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: Arthur should sell the second studio. He won't—which is where Airbnb comes in. And one fateful day, Eames sends a booking request.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beginningwithA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beginningwithA/gifts).



> Title from “Jump Then Fall.” 
> 
> Thanks to kate2kat for the rapid beta!
> 
> This is an early birthday present for beginningwitha. Her humor, creativity, generosity, and kindness cannot be overstated. What are the odds the gods would put us both in one spot? 
> 
> I originally started writing this as thank-you for beginningwitha in late October 2016. No, that’s not a typo. The results of the U.S. election quickly created a mental block that made it difficult for me to work on a fic set in D.C., even one as short and barely political as this one. Nevertheless: the time seemed right to try again. A, without further delay, please accept what’s been your due all along.

Modern studio / Cathedral Heights  
Washington, DC, United States  
4.8 stars | 97 reviews  
Entire home/flat | 2 guests | 1 bed

House Rules: No smoking. No pets. No parties. If you have any questions about how to use the microwave or oven, please discuss with me before use.

97 reviews  
Summary  
Accuracy: 4.8 | Communication: 4.8 | Cleanliness: 4.9  
Location: 4.5 | Check In: 4.9 | Value: 4.9

Yvonne: Studio is clean, with recently updated kitchen and bathroom. Host provides a map of DC and timetables for the nearest bus/metro stops. Very convenient location.

Josef: The place is spotless, also in a great location off of Wisconsin Ave. Host met me at the door and showed me the space. Definitely recommend!

* * *

Arthur should probably sell the second studio. It's a seller's market, and the condo building is nice—secure, good management, parking spaces available for a separate lease for those suckers who want to pay fifteen thousand a year for a space of their own—and it’s not like Arthur is using it.

He probably should, but he hasn’t yet. He will, someday. He’ll feel out the market in the spring, maybe. Talk to a real estate agent. In the spring, yes. That’s when you’re supposed to put residential property on the market, right? Nobody wants to move in the winter, not somewhere that’s cold. Except D.C. doesn’t follow the usual housing pattern rules, not even for a university town, because politics runs on its own schedule, and there are theoretically new Congresspeople coming in January. Theoretically: the re-election rate for incumbents is something like 95 percent.

Not that Arthur pays attention to the hamster wheel industry of the city. He went to a bar, once, back when he first moved, because he wanted to give normalcy one night to prove itself, but he didn’t have a good answer for “who do you work for,” and he didn’t have any sort of fancy badge or security clearance, and he didn’t have a law degree and couldn’t name the polling data for that race-to-watch in the Iowa 3rd and definitely couldn’t get a meeting with anyone’s chief of staff, so he didn’t go back.

Instead, he stays in his condo. He does his job, which is freelance for the precise purpose of keeping him out of an office and away from other people, for the most part. And he doesn’t sell the damn second studio because he inherited both of them, and Arthur is of the belief that you don’t sell inherited property when you don’t have strong attachments to any other cities, anyway.

Which is where Airbnb came in. 

More precisely, that’s where Ariadne came in, when she first visited him two years ago right before a big project deadline and he shoved a map of D.C. and the key to the second studio at her, and, he’s willing to admit, more or less ignored her until the last night of her trip. She said he should rent it out, just for a night, for a week at time, nothing permanent, not like he was really giving the space to someone else, just so it wasn’t empty, just so the property taxes would be taken care of. It wasn’t like he went anywhere, ever, wasn’t like he would constantly have to rearrange his schedule to give people the keys, wasn’t like they would ever be in his space, wasn’t like he’d be too far away to notice if it sounded like they were trashing the place.

“I’ll think about it,” Arthur said.

Two days later, Ariadne sent him the login information for the profile she’d set up for him, complete with a draft description of the studio.

Arthur thought about the studio. He thought about Mal, and how she’d only lived here for a summer, how Arthur hadn’t visited her then, so he’d never seen the space when it was hers. The second studio—Mal had said it could be his, all along. Once he finished up his last year of school, he could join her, and it’d be like they’d never moved out of the dorms, only with significantly fewer people drunk on shitty alcohol roaming the halls at three in the morning.

Only she’d gotten an internship in Paris that fall and said she hated phone therapy sessions, they didn’t work for her, and then her meds stopped working and she stopped taking them and never found a French doctor to work with her to find a new prescription and, and, and.

And then three days before Arthur was supposed to visit her over spring break, with the ridiculously expensive SFO to CDG ticket she’d bought him, she jumped, leaving her parents with broken hearts and Arthur with two studios across the country from his college.

So after Ariadne went home that fall, Arthur stared at her description of the studio. He thought about how people had always been in and out of their dorm room, how Mal had loved to travel, how she’d pop down to L.A. or up to Portland, just because she felt like it and had a trust fund to finance her weekend whims. How she’d been so excited about living in D.C., planning on returning to it after the stint in Paris.

He re-wrote the description. Nine days later, a businesswoman coming to town for a three-day conference paid eighty-six dollars a night for the space.

Who is he kidding? As long as the close-to-five-star reviews keep coming in, Arthur’s never going to sell.

* * *

From: Airbnb  
Subject: Booking request  
Text:  
Request:  
Check-in: Monday, October 8, 2018  
Check-out: Wednesday, October 10, 2018  
Eames says: Hello, I’ll be coming to DC for a quick work trip. Your place looks great! Eames.

Arthur goes to Eames’s profile so he can read the reviews left by previous hosts.

There are only four reviews, which isn’t unusual: the majority of people still prefer traditional hotels, and young people looking to stretch their travel budgets by using Airbnb still haven’t necessarily stayed in dozens of places.

The reviews are all positive, almost weirdly complimentary about Eames’s apparent charm, which Arthur cares nothing about. Did he trash the place, or not? Set off the fire alarm, or not? Steal the bed sheets, or not? Show up when he said he would, or not? For God’s sake, he’s not in this business to make _friends_.

Arthur glances at the picture. He’s pretty sure he’s not the kind of asshole who rejects would-be renters based on race, but he likes to know if he’s renting to people dumb enough to include bongs or shot glasses in their profile pictures. He likes to know he’s renting to people with the basic level of awareness required to save that for off-camera.

Eames’s picture does not feature a bong or shot glasses. It does, however, feature a puppy and his abs. That is, Eames’s face is definitely in the picture, but the abs—and the puppy—dead center in the little circle permitted by Airbnb. 

Arthur rolls his eyes and accepts the request.


	2. Chapter 2

Review for Arthur  
October 2018

Lovely flat, excellent location, very informative host! (PLUS: the ground floor of the building is pet-friendly, so if you’re in need of some puppy watching after your travels, I highly recommend the inner courtyard at about six a.m.)  
  
  


Review for Eames  
October 2018

Eames arrived as scheduled and left the space clean. Recommend to other hosts.

* * *

Review for Arthur  
November 2018

Charming all the way down, host and flat alike. Very comfortable space, convenient access to public transport—recommend even if your daytime obligations require you to be in the southern areas of the city. I’ll be back!  
  


Review for Eames  
November 2018

Eames is a respectful and courteous guest. I have no hesitations in recommending him to others.

* * *

Review for Arthur  
December 2018

Arthur is a marvelous host who went above and beyond to welcome me. I’d had a shit day (jetlag, work, a run-in with someone wearing a certain red hat who was feeling very bitter about the midterm results, et cetera) and Arthur took pity on me and offered to show me round. One tipsy walk along the Potomac later, I was feeling much better. American hospitality is real!!!  
  


Review for Eames  
December 2018 

Eames is a pleasant and agreeable guest. I would be happy to host him again.

* * *

Review for Arthur  
January 2019

My previous stays have been fairly short (2-5 nights), but my job is gradually transitioning here, so it was a full fortnight this time! Highly recommend this space for longer-term travel. (If I’m not here, of course. No guarantees. I’ve become fairly attached.) Have I mentioned yet that the towels are divine here? No incentive at all to get dressed.  
  


Review for Eames  
January 2019

Eames is an ideal guest for any length of time.

* * *

Review for Arthur  
February 2019

After a pipe burst two days into my stay, Arthur graciously found me alternate accommodations. I’m particularly fond of the bed. Truly darling. The best.  
  


Review for Eames  
February 2019

Eames was very flexible in regards to my proposed alternative, as emergency maintenance prevented him from using the originally booked space. Such adaptability is to be commended.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not quite get these all up before midnight her time, but... almost! Happy (still early) birthday, A!

“So now that the studio has fulfilled its grand destiny, what are you going to do with it?” Eames asks, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist as Arthur checks the stir-fry warming on the stove.

It’s a typical Tuesday night, with S Club 7 playing from the speakers Eames brought over two months ago and still hasn’t returned to the apartment he formally moved into when his job relocated him to D.C. for good. Arthur has no complaints, neither about the speakers nor the permanent relocation.

“And what grand destiny would that be?” Arthur sets the spoon aside and twists so he’s facing Eames.

“Me, of course.” Eames kisses his nose.

“The one non-creepy relationship to come out of Airbnb?”

“No more finding boyfriends via online marketplaces for temporary lodging,” says Eames.

“How about no more finding boyfriends? Just the one keeps me pretty busy,” says Arthur.

Eames grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I like the way you think… but you know what could happen if we had a one-bedroom?”

Arthur’s so startled he can only stare.

It’s not the “we” that throws him. Eames sleeps at Arthur’s more nights than not. It’s not as if the idea of cohabitation is going to send him spiraling into limbo at this point. 

And it’s not that they couldn’t afford a one-bedroom, not with both of their salaries, especially given the money Arthur’s saved from not having to pay rent on the studios. Arthur’s just never thought about it before. These were Mal’s. Why would he move? How could he?

“Play along,” Eames instructs, moving his hands to Arthur’s hips, swaying him against the granite countertop as “Never Had a Dream Come True” plays in the background, a live track to the unexpected rom-com of Arthur’s life.

“Um, space,” Arthur says, wrenching his focus back to Eames’s question. “More storage for all your stuff.”

“You’re so sexy when you talk about closet square footage.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Privacy.”

“For when people come over,” says Eames.

“No one comes over,” says Arthur. “Except for Ariadne, and she doesn’t count, for privacy concerns.”

“We’re going to have friends,” Eames says, his tone decisive.

“Are we?” Arthur means to sound skeptical, but the words come out genuinely curious.

“We’ll be able to host a murder mystery dinner party before the year is out,” Eames promises.

Arthur looks past Eames’s shoulders at the tiny kitchen table, overflowing with papers and tucked into the wall in such a way that any more than two chairs is impossible.

When Ariadne comes over, someone eats on the couch.

“Where?” he asks.

“Exactly, darling,” says Eames. “But all of this is beside the point.”

“Wait, what? I thought you were advocating for a one-bedroom, here,” says Arthur.

Eames nods.

“But… not for storage space and privacy.”

“Those things are really quite negotiable,” says Eames, beaming.

“Okay,” says Arthur. “So the perks of one-bedroom would be…?”

“More walls to kiss you against,” says Eames.

Arthur blinks. 

“More windows to light you,” Eames adds.

“I’ve read this story,” says Arthur. “I’m pretty sure it ends with me being devoured.”

Eames waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, it does.”

Arthur wants to match Eames’s playful tone, he does, but, “Can we think about it a bit? It’s just, Mal—”

“—I’m sure did not anticipate the two of you living in these studios for the rest of your lives,” says Eames, his voice gentle.

Arthur feels like his whole world has spun upside-down, or at least rotated. Like the gravity that’s kept him grounded for the last few years has suddenly abdicated.

When Mal told him about her studio plans—when Arthur had built his plans around them—he couldn’t conceive a future that didn’t involve the two of them, living on the same hallway, forever. He supposed back then, in a distant, hazy way, that they would grow older, but any time he’d thought to imagine it at all, his thoughts turned into a kind of Penrose steps, the two of them always seeming to ascend, but always returning to the same place, always together. 

Anything different was unimaginable. 

Now, Eames is asking him to imagine.

“What if… do you like this building, at least?” Arthur asks. “I know it’s a little farther from your office than you’d like.”

“Darling, if it meant moving in with you, I’d commute from bloody Silver Spring,” says Eames. “And if you haven’t noticed, I’m here most of the time anyway.”

“I’ve noticed,” says Arthur. He glances around the space again. It’s lovely, it really is. Mal chose well. 

“Ha’penny for your thoughts?” Eames prompts.

Arthur gives him a light shove. “Really? That’s not even in _circulation_ anymore.”

“Groat. Sixpence. Farthing. Quarter farthing. Double florin,” says Eames, leering.

“Oh my god. That doesn’t even—that doesn’t even make any sense as like, sexy, you know that?” But Arthur’s smiling now, and from the way Eames is smiling back, Arthur knows he can hear the affection in Arthur’s voice just fine.

“You love me anyway,” says Eames.

“Yes,” says Arthur.

“And you’ll move in with me, preferably into a unit in this building, so you can keep an eye on your not-boyfriend-material Airbnb guests.”

“Yes,” says Arthur, because apparently Eames is a mind reader on top of everything else.

He still doesn’t know what he’ll want to do with the studios in five years, but this seems like an acceptable first step. Maybe even one Mal would approve of. He’s sure she would approve of Eames.

“I don’t think the ground floor has any one-bedrooms, but I’ll buy us a goldfish.”

“Why?” Arthur asks.

“Because we need a joint pet, and Ariadne said you like goldfish.”

Arthur bursts out laughing. He can’t help himself. He turns away from Eames momentarily, to hide his laughter and poke at the long-neglected stir-fry.

“I’m missing something here,” Eames says.

“The crackers,” Arthur says, turning back toward Eames. “Not the real fish. Crackers, like… that we’d serve at this murder mystery dinner party. Before the actual dinner part, I mean. When people are coming in and figuring out who other people are supposed to be, and whatever else happens in the first half-hour of a murder mystery dinner party.” 

“Oh,” says Eames.

“Hey,” says Arthur. “You can get us a goldfish anyway. A real one.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. I’ll even let you pick the name,” says Arthur, feeling generous.

Eames kisses him, one hand cradling Arthur’s cheek, the other pivoting them so he can back Arthur against a cupboard rather than the stove.

“All right,” says Arthur, looking at Eames through his lashes even as he snakes a hand beneath Eames’s t-shirt. “Find a one-bedroom, move in together. Buy a goldfish. What’s next?”

“Darling,” says Eames, very seriously. “I think there is still some devouring to be done.”


End file.
